Lost Face

by Jack London

It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitternessand horror, homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here,farther away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased. He satin the snow, arms tied behind him, waiting the torture. He staredcuriously before him at a huge Cossack, prone in the snow, moaning inhis pain. The men had finished handling the giant and turned himover to the women. That they exceeded the fiendishness of the men,the man's cries attested.Subienkow looked on, and shuddered. He was not afraid to die. Hehad carried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail fromWarsaw to Nulato, to shudder at mere dying. But he objected to thetorture. It offended his soul. And this offence, in turn, was notdue to the mere pain he must endure, but to the sorry spectacle thepain would make of him. He knew that he would pray, and beg, andentreat, even as Big Ivan and the others that had gone before. Thiswould not be nice. To pass out bravely and cleanly, with a smile anda jest--ah! that would have been the way. But to lose control, tohave his soul upset by the pangs of the flesh, to screech and gibberlike an ape, to become the veriest beast--ah, that was what was soterrible.There had been no chance to escape. From the beginning, when hedreamed the fiery dream of Poland's independence, he had become apuppet in the hands of Fate. From the beginning, at Warsaw, at St.Petersburg, in the Siberian mines, in Kamtchatka, on the crazy boatsof the fur-thieves, Fate had been driving him to this end. Withoutdoubt, in the foundations of the world was graved this end for him--for him, who was so fine and sensitive, whose nerves scarcelysheltered under his skin, who was a dreamer, and a poet, and anartist. Before he was dreamed of, it had been determined that thequivering bundle of sensitiveness that constituted him should bedoomed to live in raw and howling savagery, and to die in this farland of night, in this dark place beyond the last boundaries of theworld.He sighed. So that thing before him was Big Ivan--Big Ivan thegiant, the man without nerves, the man of iron, the Cossack turnedfreebooter of the seas, who was as phlegmatic as an ox, with anervous system so low that what was pain to ordinary men was scarcelya tickle to him. Well, well, trust these Nulato Indians to find BigIvan's nerves and trace them to the roots of his quivering soul.They were certainly doing it. It was inconceivable that a man couldsuffer so much and yet live. Big Ivan was paying for his low orderof nerves. Already he had lasted twice as long as any of the others.Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack's sufferings muchlonger. Why didn't Ivan die? He would go mad if that screaming didnot cease. But when it did cease, his turn would come. And therewas Yakaga awaiting him, too, grinning at him even now inanticipation--Yakaga, whom only last week he had kicked out of thefort, and upon whose face he had laid the lash of his dog-whip.Yakaga would attend to him. Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving for himmore refined tortures, more exquisite nerve-racking. Ah! that musthave been a good one, from the way Ivan screamed. The squaws bendingover him stepped back with laughter and clapping of hands. Subienkowsaw the monstrous thing that had been perpetrated, and began to laughhysterically. The Indians looked at him in wonderment that he shouldlaugh. But Subienkow could not stop.This would never do. He controlled himself, the spasmodic twitchingsslowly dying away. He strove to think of other things, and beganreading back in his own life. He remembered his mother and hisfather, and the little spotted pony, and the French tutor who hadtaught him dancing and sneaked him an old worn copy of Voltaire.Once more he saw Paris, and dreary London, and gay Vienna, and Rome.And once more he saw that wild group of youths who had dreamed, evenas he, the dream of an independent Poland with a king of Poland onthe throne at Warsaw. Ah, there it was that the long trail began.Well, he had lasted longest. One by one, beginning with the twoexecuted at St. Petersburg, he took up the count of the passing ofthose brave spirits. Here one had been beaten to death by a jailer,and there, on that bloodstained highway of the exiles, where they hadmarched for endless months, beaten and maltreated by their Cossackguards, another had dropped by the way. Always it had been savagery--brutal, bestial savagery. They had died--of fever, in the mines,under the knout. The last two had died after the escape, in thebattle with the Cossacks, and he alone had won to Kamtchatka with thestolen papers and the money of a traveller he had left lying in thesnow.It had been nothing but savagery. All the years, with his heart instudios, and theatres, and courts, he had been hemmed in by savagery.He had purchased his life with blood. Everybody had killed. He hadkilled that traveller for his passports. He had proved that he was aman of parts by duelling with two Russian officers on a single day.He had had to prove himself in order to win to a place among the fur-thieves. He had had to win to that place. Behind him lay thethousand-years-long road across all Siberia and Russia. He could notescape that way. The only way was ahead, across the dark and icy seaof Bering to Alaska. The way had led from savagery to deepersavagery. On the scurvy-rotten ships of the fur-thieves, out of foodand out of water, buffeted by the interminable storms of that stormysea, men had become animals. Thrice he had sailed east fromKamtchatka. And thrice, after all manner of hardship and suffering,the survivors had come back to Kamtchatka. There had been no outletfor escape, and he could not go back the way he had come, for themines and the knout awaited him.Again, the fourth and last time, he had sailed east. He had beenwith those who first found the fabled Seal Islands; but he had notreturned with them to share the wealth of furs in the mad orgies ofKamtchatka. He had sworn never to go back. He knew that to win tothose dear capitals of Europe he must go on. So he had changed shipsand remained in the dark new land. His comrades were Slavonianhunters and Russian adventurers, Mongols and Tartars and Siberianaborigines; and through the savages of the new world they had cut apath of blood. They had massacred whole villages that refused tofurnish the fur-tribute; and they, in turn, had been massacred byships' companies. He, with one Finn, had been the sole survivor ofsuch a company. They had spent a winter of solitude and starvationon a lonely Aleutian isle, and their rescue in the spring by anotherfur-ship had been one chance in a thousand.But always the terrible savagery had hemmed him in. Passing fromship to ship, and ever refusing to return, he had come to the shipthat explored south. All down the Alaska coast they had encounterednothing but hosts of savages. Every anchorage among the beetlingislands or under the frowning cliffs of the mainland had meant abattle or a storm. Either the gales blew, threatening destruction,or the war canoes came off, manned by howling natives with the war-paint on their faces, who came to learn the bloody virtues of thesea-rovers' gunpowder. South, south they had coasted, clear to themyth-land of California. Here, it was said, were Spanish adventurerswho had fought their way up from Mexico. He had had hopes of thoseSpanish adventurers. Escaping to them, the rest would have beeneasy--a year or two, what did it matter more or less--and he wouldwin to Mexico, then a ship, and Europe would be his. But they hadmet no Spaniards. Only had they encountered the same impregnablewall of savagery. The denizens of the confines of the world, paintedfor war, had driven them back from the shores. At last, when oneboat was cut off and every man killed, the commander had abandonedthe quest and sailed back to the north.The years had passed. He had served under Tebenkoff whenMichaelovski Redoubt was built. He had spent two years in theKuskokwim country. Two summers, in the month of June, he had managedto be at the head of Kotzebue Sound. Here, at this time, the tribesassembled for barter; here were to be found spotted deerskins fromSiberia, ivory from the Diomedes, walrus skins from the shores of theArctic, strange stone lamps, passing in trade from tribe to tribe, noone knew whence, and, once, a hunting-knife of English make; andhere, Subienkow knew, was the school in which to learn geography.For he met Eskimos from Norton Sound, from King Island and St.Lawrence Island, from Cape Prince of Wales, and Point Barrow. Suchplaces had other names, and their distances were measured in days.It was a vast region these trading savages came from, and a vasterregion from which, by repeated trade, their stone lamps and thatsteel knife had come. Subienkow bullied, and cajoled, and bribed.Every far-journeyer or strange tribesman was brought before him.Perils unaccountable and unthinkable were mentioned, as well as wildbeasts, hostile tribes, impenetrable forests, and mighty mountainranges; but always from beyond came the rumour and the tale of white-skinned men, blue of eye and fair of hair, who fought like devils andwho sought always for furs. They were to the east--far, far to theeast. No one had seen them. It was the word that had been passedalong.It was a hard school. One could not learn geography very wellthrough the medium of strange dialects, from dark minds that mingledfact and fable and that measured distances by "sleeps" that variedaccording to the difficulty of the going. But at last came thewhisper that gave Subienkow courage. In the east lay a great riverwhere were these blue-eyed men. The river was called the Yukon.South of Michaelovski Redoubt emptied another great river which theRussians knew as the Kwikpak. These two rivers were one, ran thewhisper.Subienkow returned to Michaelovski. For a year he urged anexpedition up the Kwikpak. Then arose Malakoff, the Russian half-breed, to lead the wildest and most ferocious of the hell's broth ofmongrel adventurers who had crossed from Kamtchatka. Subienkow washis lieutenant. They threaded the mazes of the great delta of theKwikpak, picked up the first low hills on the northern bank, and forhalf a thousand miles, in skin canoes loaded to the gunwales withtrade-goods and ammunition, fought their way against the five-knotcurrent of a river that ran from two to ten miles wide in a channelmany fathoms deep. Malakoff decided to build the fort at Nulato.Subienkow urged to go farther. But he quickly reconciled himself toNulato. The long winter was coming on. It would be better to wait.Early the following summer, when the ice was gone, he would disappearup the Kwikpak and work his way to the Hudson Bay Company's posts.Malakoff had never heard the whisper that the Kwikpak was the Yukon,and Subienkow did not tell him.Came the building of the fort. It was enforced labour. The tieredwalls of logs arose to the sighs and groans of the Nulato Indians.The lash was laid upon their backs, and it was the iron hand of thefreebooters of the sea that laid on the lash. There were Indiansthat ran away, and when they were caught they were brought back andspread-eagled before the fort, where they and their tribe learned theefficacy of the knout. Two died under it; others were injured forlife; and the rest took the lesson to heart and ran away no more.The snow was flying ere the fort was finished, and then it was thetime for furs. A heavy tribute was laid upon the tribe. Blows andlashings continued, and that the tribute should be paid, the womenand children were held as hostages and treated with the barbaritythat only the fur-thieves knew.Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest.The fort was gone. In the light of its burning, half the fur-thieveshad been cut down. The other half had passed under the torture.Only Subienkow remained, or Subienkow and Big Ivan, if thatwhimpering, moaning thing in the snow could be called Big Ivan.Subienkow caught Yakaga grinning at him. There was no gainsayingYakaga. The mark of the lash was still on his face. After all,Subienkow could not blame him, but he disliked the thought of whatYakaga would do to him. He thought of appealing to Makamuk, thehead-chief; but his judgment told him that such appeal was useless.Then, too, he thought of bursting his bonds and dying fighting. Suchan end would be quick. But he could not break his bonds. Caribouthongs were stronger than he. Still devising, another thought cameto him. He signed for Makamuk, and that an interpreter who knew thecoast dialect should be brought."Oh, Makamuk," he said, "I am not minded to die. I am a great man,and it were foolishness for me to die. In truth, I shall not die. Iam not like these other carrion."He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, andstirred it contemptuously with his toe."I am too wise to die. Behold, I have a great medicine. I aloneknow this medicine. Since I am not going to die, I shall exchangethis medicine with you.""What is this medicine?" Makamuk demanded."It is a strange medicine."Subienkow debated with himself for a moment, as if loth to part withthe secret."I will tell you. A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skinmakes the skin hard like a rock, hard like iron, so that no cuttingweapon can cut it. The strongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vainthing against it. A bone knife becomes like a piece of mud; and itwill turn the edge of the iron knives we have brought among you.What will you give me for the secret of the medicine?""I will give you your life," Makamuk made answer through theinterpreter.Subienkow laughed scornfully."And you shall be a slave in my house until you die."The Pole laughed more scornfully."Untie my hands and feet and let us talk," he said.The chief made the sign; and when he was loosed Subienkow rolled acigarette and lighted it."This is foolish talk," said Makamuk. "There is no such medicine.It cannot be. A cutting edge is stronger than any medicine."The chief was incredulous, and yet he wavered. He had seen too manydeviltries of fur-thieves that worked. He could not wholly doubt."I will give you your life; but you shall not be a slave," heannounced."More than that."Subienkow played his game as coolly as if he were bartering for afoxskin."It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. Iwant a sled and dogs, and six of your hunters to travel with me downthe river and give me safety to one day's sleep from MichaelovskiRedoubt.""You must live here, and teach us all of your deviltries," was thereply.Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blewcigarette smoke out on the icy air, and curiously regarded whatremained of the big Cossack."That scar!" Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole's neck,where a livid mark advertised the slash of a knife in a Kamtchatkanbrawl. "The medicine is not good. The cutting edge was strongerthan the medicine.""It was a strong man that drove the stroke." (Subienkow considered.)"Stronger than you, stronger than your strongest hunter, strongerthan he."Again, with the toe of his moccasin, he touched the Cossack--a grislyspectacle, no longer conscious--yet in whose dismembered body thepain-racked life clung and was loth to go."Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were noberries of a certain kind, of which I see you have plenty in thiscountry. The medicine here will be strong.""I will let you go down river," said Makamuk; "and the sled and thedogs and the six hunters to give you safety shall be yours.""You are slow," was the cool rejoinder. "You have committed anoffence against my medicine in that you did not at once accept myterms. Behold, I now demand more. I want one hundred beaver skins."(Makamuk sneered.)"I want one hundred pounds of dried fish." (Makamuk nodded, for fishwere plentiful and cheap.) "I want two sleds--one for me and one formy furs and fish. And my rifle must be returned to me. If you donot like the price, in a little while the price will grow."Yakaga whispered to the chief."But how can I know your medicine is true medicine?" Makamuk asked."It is very easy. First, I shall go into the woods--"Again Yakaga whispered to Makamuk, who made a suspicious dissent."You can send twenty hunters with me," Subienkow went on. "You see,I must get the berries and the roots with which to make the medicine.Then, when you have brought the two sleds and loaded on them the fishand the beaver skins and the rifle, and when you have told off thesix hunters who will go with me--then, when all is ready, I will rubthe medicine on my neck, so, and lay my neck there on that log. Thencan your strongest hunter take the axe and strike three times on myneck. You yourself can strike the three times."Makamuk stood with gaping mouth, drinking in this latest and mostwonderful magic of the fur-thieves."But first," the Pole added hastily, "between each blow I must put onfresh medicine. The axe is heavy and sharp, and I want no mistakes.""All that you have asked shall be yours," Makamuk cried in a rush ofacceptance. "Proceed to make your medicine."Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game,and there must be no slips. He spoke arrogantly."You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the offenceclean you must give me your daughter."He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in oneeye and a bristling wolf-tooth. Makamuk was angry, but the Poleremained imperturbable, rolling and lighting another cigarette."Make haste," he threatened. "If you are not quick, I shall demandyet more."In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded beforehim, and he saw once more his native land, and France, and, once, ashe glanced at the wolf-toothed girl, he remembered another girl, asinger and a dancer, whom he had known when first as a youth he cameto Paris."What do you want with the girl?" Makamuk asked."To go down the river with me." Subienkow glanced over hercritically. "She will make a good wife, and it is an honour worthyof my medicine to be married to your blood."Again he remembered the singer and dancer and hummed aloud a song shehad taught him. He lived the old life over, but in a detached,impersonal sort of way, looking at the memory-pictures of his ownlife as if they were pictures in a book of anybody's life. Thechief's voice, abruptly breaking the silence, startled him"It shall be done," said Makamuk. "The girl shall go down the riverwith you. But be it understood that I myself strike the three blowswith the axe on your neck.""But each time I shall put on the medicine," Subienkow answered, witha show of ill-concealed anxiety."You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Here are thehunters who shall see you do not escape. Go into the forest andgather your medicine."Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of the medicine by the Pole'srapacity. Surely nothing less than the greatest of medicines couldenable a man in the shadow of death to stand up and drive an old-woman's bargain."Besides," whispered Yakaga, when the Pole, with his guard, haddisappeared among the spruce trees, "when you have learned themedicine you can easily destroy him.""But how can I destroy him?" Makamuk argued. "His medicine will notlet me destroy him.""There will be some part where he has not rubbed the medicine," wasYakaga's reply. "We will destroy him through that part. It may behis ears. Very well; we will thrust a spear in one ear and out theother. Or it may be his eyes. Surely the medicine will be much toostrong to rub on his eyes."The chief nodded. "You are wise, Yakaga. If he possesses no otherdevil-things, we will then destroy him."Subienkow did not waste time in gathering the ingredients for hismedicine, he selected whatsoever came to hand such as spruce needles,the inner bark of the willow, a strip of birch bark, and a quantityof moss-berries, which he made the hunters dig up for him frombeneath the snow. A few frozen roots completed his supply, and heled the way back to camp.Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him, noting the quantities andkinds of the ingredients he dropped into the pot of boiling water."You must be careful that the moss-berries go in first," heexplained."And--oh, yes, one other thing--the finger of a man. Here, Yakaga,let me cut off your finger."But Yakaga put his hands behind him and scowled."Just a small finger," Subienkow pleaded."Yakaga, give him your finger," Makamuk commanded."There be plenty of fingers lying around," Yakaga grunted, indicatingthe human wreckage in the snow of the score of persons who had beentortured to death."It must be the finger of a live man," the Pole objected."Then shall you have the finger of a live man." Yakaga strode overto the Cossack and sliced off a finger."He is not yet dead," he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in thesnow at the Pole's feet. "Also, it is a good finger, because it islarge."Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing.It was a French love-song that with great solemnity he sang into thebrew."Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless," heexplained. "The words are the chiefest strength of it. Behold, itis ready.""Name the words slowly, that I may know them," Makamuk commanded."Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times frommy neck, then will I give you the secret of the words.""But if the medicine is not good medicine?" Makamuk queriedanxiously.Subienkow turned upon him wrathfully."My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do byme as you have done to the others. Cut me up a bit at a time, evenas you have cut him up." He pointed to the Cossack. "The medicineis now cool. Thus, I rub it on my neck, saying this furthermedicine."With great gravity he slowly intoned a line of the "Marseillaise," atthe same time rubbing the villainous brew thoroughly into his neck.An outcry interrupted his play-acting. The giant Cossack, with alast resurgence of his tremendous vitality, had arisen to his knees.Laughter and cries of surprise and applause arose from the Nulatos,as Big Ivan began flinging himself about in the snow with mightyspasms.Subienkow was made sick by the sight, but he mastered his qualms andmade believe to be angry."This will not do," he said. "Finish him, and then we will make thetest. Here, you, Yakaga, see that his noise ceases."While this was being done, Subienkow turned to Makamuk."And remember, you are to strike hard. This is not baby-work. Here,take the axe and strike the log, so that I can see you strike like aman."Makamuk obeyed, striking twice, precisely and with vigour, cuttingout a large chip."It is well." Subienkow looked about him at the circle of savagefaces that somehow seemed to symbolize the wall of savagery that hadhemmed him about ever since the Czar's police had first arrested himin Warsaw. "Take your axe, Makamuk, and stand so. I shall lie down.When I raise my hand, strike, and strike with all your might. And becareful that no one stands behind you. The medicine is good, and theaxe may bounce from off my neck and right out of your hands."He looked at the two sleds, with the dogs in harness, loaded withfurs and fish. His rifle lay on top of the beaver skins. The sixhunters who were to act as his guard stood by the sleds.""Where is the girl?" the Pole demanded. "Bring her up to the sledsbefore the test goes on."When this had been carried out, Subienkow lay down in the snow,resting his head on the log like a tired child about to sleep. Hehad lived so many dreary years that he was indeed tired."I laugh at you and your strength, O Makamuk," he said. "Strike, andstrike hard."He lifted his hand. Makamuk swung the axe, a broadaxe for thesquaring of logs. The bright steel flashed through the frosty air,poised for a perceptible instant above Makamuk's head, then descendedupon Subienkow's bare neck. Clear through flesh and bone it cut itsway, biting deeply into the log beneath. The amazed savages saw thehead bounce a yard away from the blood-spouting trunk.There was a great bewilderment and silence, while slowly it began todawn in their minds that there had been no medicine. The fur-thiefhad outwitted them. Alone, of all their prisoners, he had escapedthe torture. That had been the stake for which he played. A greatroar of laughter went up. Makamuk bowed his head in shame. The fur-thief had fooled him. He had lost face before all his people. Stillthey continued to roar out their laughter. Makamuk turned, and withbowed head stalked away. He knew that thenceforth he would be nolonger known as Makamuk. He would be Lost Face; the record of hisshame would be with him until he died; and whenever the tribesgathered in the spring for the salmon, or in the summer for thetrading, the story would pass back and forth across the camp-fires ofhow the fur-thief died peaceably, at a single stroke, by the hand ofLost Face."Who was Lost Face?" he could hear, in anticipation, some insolentyoung buck demand, "Oh, Lost Face," would be the answer, "he who oncewas Makamuk in the days before he cut off the fur-thief's head."

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